The Pursuit of Valor
by prone2dementia
Summary: K-Unit guardian fic. Snake thinks Alex needs a psychiatrist. Alex thinks Blunt needs a help group for compulsive liars. Wolf's motorcycle also makes an appearance. So do bank robbers. For SpyFest 2010.
1. Hope Is A Feathered Thing

_This could not have been possible without _Crowlows19, _a brilliant author and beta whom I cannot thank enough; _camnstarr4eva, _the absolute GODDESS who helped me navigate the intricacies of Scottish; and _JustAnotherParallelDimension, _whose support, Briticism, and good humor I could not have done without._

Warnings: profanity, violence, poorly attempted angst.

* * *

The Pursuit of Valor

_Hope is a feathered thing..._

When the flat's door swung open, Alex had but one thought:

If the head of MI6 Special Operations ever attended a help group, he would probably be forced to say, "Hello, my name is Alan Blunt, and I am a compulsive liar who enjoys torturing minors."

For staring back at the spy with unabashed shock was a face too familiar for comfort.

"Hullo, Snake," Alex greeted in an eerily calm tone, much calmer than the situation warranted.

Blond curls framed a rapidly paling face. Like a deer caught in the headlights, Snake's widening eyes displayed an unmasked trepidation.

"Cub. Hi." He cleared his throat after a beat, attempting to recover his composure. "Come in."

Silently, the boy followed the man inside, depositing a duffel and backpack into the corner.

On the far side of the sitting room, light filtered in from an uncurtained balcony door. When Alex peered through the glass, a blanket of concrete-colored clouds greeted him. Rain, so fine that its individual drops could not be discerned yet so dense that it created a diaphanous haze over the scenery, descended from the sky without reprieve. Captured by the sight, Alex wondered how long it had been drizzling.

A polite cough drew him from his sentiments.

Swiveling to face his new, temporary guardian, Alex raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Mildly, with a voice that hinted at his Scottish upbringing, Snake observed, "You don' talk much; do ye?"

"How astute."

In response to the muttered comment, the man gave an amused snort. "Plan t'introduce yersel' properly, anytime soon?"

Alex's expression shifted from incredulous to skeptical to sarcastically bright, saturating the pause with nonverbal cues.

"Hi!" he said at last. "My name is Alex Rider. I enjoy picnics, sunsets, and long walks on the beach."

As if reconciling the personality that he'd expected Alex to possess with the personality that Alex actually possessed, Snake cocked a critical eye at his young charge before reciprocating, "Sebastian Murraine, Aquarius."

Unsure of whether he was annoyed or amused by Sebastian's fluent rejoinder, Alex pointed out, "Mr. Murraine, are you aware that the definition of 'murrain' is 'a plague or a pestilence'?"

"O' aye, but my last name is spelled wi' an '_e_' at the end." Sebastian appeared impressed by the knowledge. "An' please, call me Sebastian. I'm no' that much older than ye."

Reminded of Jack's similar attitude (_"It makes me feel so _old _when you call me Ms. Starbright..."_), Alex turned his face away. Images of the cheerful American, once so lively but now confined to a hospital bed, flashed before his mind's eye. He fought to suppress the torrent of guilt that followed, threatening to engulf him.

"Okay, Sebastian," said Alex finally, when he was certain that his voice wouldn't break. "Are you giving me a tour of the place?"

Almost surprised that the boy had volunteered to speak without first being prodded, Sebastian acquiesced. Not feeling a need to mention the battered sofa, old end table, or TV set, he led Alex into the kitchen. There, he informed the boy that nothing was kept in the pantry and that the stove knobs dislodged often.

"Just stick it back on, if that happens," he said, "but make sure that you hear a _click_."

Then, traipsing back into the sitting room, Sebastian suggested that Alex pick up the duffel and backpack. Acquiescing, the youth slung one across each shoulder and trailed Sebastian into the short stretch of hallway.

"My bedroom's straight ahead. The bathroom's t'the right, an' your bedroom's t'the left." Sebastian pushed open the door to Alex's room.

Within, a bed and a stand occupied the corner, directly opposite a moderately sized desk and dresser. The navy curtains were shuttered, casting the room into shadows and muting the only object of interest, a mahogany, up-right piano. Alex felt his gaze drawn inexplicably toward its elegant aura, one that was so incongruous with the rest of the flat.

Noticing the direction in which Alex looked, Sebastian explained, "The piano belonged to my brother when he lived wi' me. He's at uni now."

"You brother lived with you?"

A nod. "When he was fourteen an' I was nineteen, our ma passed away."

Alex opened his mouth, but Sebastian held up a hand as if to stop the expected condolences.

"Naw, don' be feeling sorry for us. She was a drug whore, an' we never even found out who our fathers were." Bitterly, the man shrugged, as if the physical action would help him shrug away the feelings. "I had a home study done, so I'd be eligible to take in my brother. T'go into the system at his age would've been hard as hell... Anyway, I think it's me getting guardianship of ye 'coz I've done an' passed my home study. God knows how many times Gabriele an' Aiden would fail it."

"...Gabriele and Aiden?"

A faint blush crept onto Sebastian's cheeks, tingeing them pink. "Uh, I meant t'say Wolf an' Eagle."

"Okay." Instead of calling the man on his slip, Alex decided politely to change the topic. "So, what did MI6 tell you about me? That I'm a problem child you should look out for?"

"Something like that," smirked Sebastian. "The general gist was that I had to take in a walking target 'coz his guardian was out o' commission."

The coarse phrasing caused Alex to wince.

(..._Walking target_...

..._Out of commission_...)

He swallowed, perhaps trying to swallow the painful thud of his heart.

Seeming to notice, the soldier said in what might have been an apologetic tone, "Well, I'll leave you to unpack now. Dinner's in an hour."

Finally alone, Alex allowed himself to deflate. His sigh was heavy, filling his lungs with the scent of _lavenderwoodsomething_. Throwing a haphazard glance at his bags, he quickly decided to unpack later. Right now, he just needed time to think and regain his bearings.

In an almost trancelike state, he found himself floating to the piano, pulling out the bench, sitting down, and removing the cover. Transfixed by the ebony and ivory keys, he could envision a pair of elegant hands, fluttering and flourishing across the instrument like birds against the backdrop of sky. A familiar tune would its way through his mind, entangled in a memory that made his throat clench.

Jack had dragged him to a music store on a rainy afternoon not unlike today. Ignoring the disapproval of the owner, she had sat Alex down at the piano to teach him a simple duet.

"_It's _Heart and Soul," she'd informed him, her smile as brilliant as the crystal chandeliers above them. "_I used to play it all the time with my friends_."

In the process of learning it (and, in Jack's case, teaching it), the two had shared many laughs. The bright melody had also been effective at inducing smiles from the store's other customers.

Alex sighed. The tune was rather like Jack herself: happy, cheerful, light...

Squeezing his eyes shut, the boy firmly told himself that he was _not_ tearing up. Perhaps, it would be better for him to start unpacking now, he decided. Standing, he went to unzip his black duffel. Shirt, pants, and underwear were all flung into the dresser indiscriminately. Then, remembering Jack's complaints about the costliness of his school uniforms, he searched the closet to find a stack of clothes hangers in the back. Mechanically, he hung up his shirt and slacks, concentrating on the manual work so that his mind wouldn't wander.

Anything to stop himself from thinking about what had happened.

When he finished the task, he returned to his bag. A sheathed knife, once concealed by clothing, was now exposed at the bottom. Hastily, he stowed it in the drawer of his bedside stand.

He hoped that he wouldn't encounter a reason to use it.

* * *

At dinner, Sebastian laid down the rules. "No drugs, sex, or alcohol. No crime, unless there's a good reason for it."

With his fork raised halfway to his mouth, Alex paused. "'Good reason' is rather subjective, isn't it? Anything else you'd like to add? Stay in school, perhaps? Get good grades?"

"An' recycle. Respect yer elders..." The man winked, smiling good-naturedly. "Glad we're on the same page."

Alex shrugged, swallowing the last bit of pasta. He then stood and started to clear the table automatically.

Surprised, Sebastian could only watch as the boy stacked the empty dishes together. "You dinnae need to—"

Waving off the words, Alex replied, "You cooked. I'll clean."

His eyes were downcast, set on the maroon place settings and the task at hand. The man's mouth shut with an audible _click_, and shrugging, he headed out of the kitchen. _"No' gonna argue with that,"_ Alex heard him mutter.

Snorting indelicately, Alex transferred the dishes into the sink. He had always washed dishes by hand because Jack washed dishes by hand.

Whenever the topic was broached, she would admit, _"Yeah, it's good for the environment. But the truth is, I was brought up washing dishes this way. I'm too set in my ways to change 'em now."_

With that memory, he urged himself to _stop_—stop thinking about her—but it was difficult. Life's littlest nuances were powerful enough to resurrect a storm of memories, as sudden as the rains of summer. He knew that, by allowing them, he was only pouring salt on his wounds. Brooding over her condition would not heal her quicker, just like watching a clock would not make time pass faster...

A deft twist of the faucet was followed by the sound of rushing water. Allowing the mindless noise to wash over him, he began realizing that his bitter thoughts were not soothed in the least. Vaguely, he registered his own harsh breathing as his carefully controlled emotions started to crack. Vicious anger first overtook his mind, and then his chest, and then his limbs. It spiraled up and up, like a lightning bolt directed right at—

MI-bloody-6. For lying to him. Blackmailing him. Forcing him to be their spy. And now Jack was in the hospital because of the enemies that he had made on the missions.

"_You're not in any danger, Alex. None of your enemies will come after you."_

Because they were all after his loved ones...

_How would it feel_, he wondered, _to walk into the 'bank' and gun down everyone in sight? How would it feel to hold chaos in his hands?_

Unconsciously, his fingers clenched around the last glass that he had to put away. It fit easily into his palm, and so tight was his grip, that his skin paled lily-white. And then, with a sudden noise in his ears and a sudden pain in his hands, the glass shattered.

All plans for revenge shattered with it.

"Shit, shit!" Taking in the results of his unchecked fury, Alex's thought train took an abrupt dive off the side of a cliff and into the turbulent waters beneath.

"Alex?" Hearing the commotion, Sebastian reentered the kitchen. In the dim lighting, shadows—along with worry—played across his features. "What happened? Are ye – are ye _bleedin'_?"

"Of course not," Alex said flatly, grabbing a nearby cloth to staunch his wound. "I'm invincible. Didn't you get the memo?"

Rolling his eyes, Sebastian moved forward to help clean the mess. Shards of jagged glass glinted from the floor, like a handful of stars scattered across the night sky.

"O' yeah," he said, voice ripe with sarcasm. "You're the legendary teenage spy, who's never failed a mission."

Taken aback, Alex's gaze snapped upwards. "Who told you that?"

"Ye hear stuff sometimes." Sebastian tossed out the answer as if it were of no consequences, before noticing that the boy was futilely trying to mask horror. Hastily, the man backtracked, "No' often, I mean. Only when the higher-ups decide t'grab drinks together. They dinnae get together in just any old place, though. All o' the people there—customers, bartenders—have t'have some kind of security clearance."

"Are you sure? The head of SO doesn't seem like the type who would go to a bar." Frankly, Alex was unconvinced that Alan Blunt would grab a drink with _anyone_.

"I wouldnae know. I've never met the guy." A wry expression crossed the soldier's face. "But you have, haven't ye?" He shook his head a little sadly. "If ye asked me, I'd say it was wrong to use a kid like that."

Under his breath, Alex murmured, "You say it's wrong, but what can you do about it?"

Although the boy had not meant for Sebastian to hear the comment, their close proximity rendered the words audible nonetheless. Looking up, Alex caught sight of something unreadable—pity, shame?—in the man's eyes.

Alex sighed, gesturing at the last fragments of glass being swept away by Sebastian. "Look, I'm sorry about this mess."

A different apology remained unspoken.

"'S all right."

Deciding to take his leave before he caused more awkwardness, Alex nodded and advanced to the exit. As he walked away, he felt Sebastian's eyes following him steadily.

"Y'know, Alex," Sebastian said softly, right before the boy disappeared into the next room. "I _do_ think it's wrong t'use children. I know that saying I'm sorry for what's happened to you isn't much, but I _am_ sorry, an' I'll try t'help you in the ways I can."

"Thanks. I appreciate it..." Alex tried and failed to smile, feeling the strain in the expression that he aimed at Sebastian. "You're quite a lot nicer now than you were at Brecon Beacons."

Widened eyes testified to the man's incredulity. "Kid, _nae_body's nice at Brecon Beacons, okay? So don' expect me to apologize for that. Now, get outta here and do yer homework or something."

Alex's snort of laughter followed him out of the room.

* * *

In his dream, yellow raincoats were everywhere. Not a single soul in the crowd wore something different. Not a single soul in the crowd paid attention to the boy in their midst, who was not clad in such an outfit.

Above them, the sky was a watercolor, with charcoal gray bleeding into salty silver bleeding into mossy green. Below them, the ground was a mosaic, with cobblestone conglomerates buried beside pint-sized pebbles buried beside river rocks.

Alex Rider felt alone, the sensation penetrating his body like a slow poison.

Alex Rider felt dizzy, the sensation masking all of his senses like a vertiginous drug.

Alex Rider felt insane.

But it was a good kind of _insane_. The kind that gripped him tight and freed him from all thoughts of consequences. The kind that allowed him to pull out a blade from within the folds of his clothing and stab at those around him. Stab, stab, _stab—_

—and watch the victims keel to the ground and not feel a single drop of remorse.

No more yellow.

No more, for the hue had leeched into an exciting, merciless red.

Blood red.

Just a few shades darker and it would be the exact color of Jack's hair.

"This isn't what you want, Alex."

The boy whipped around. All about him, corpses were strewn in the street, lying like broken, lifeless dolls. Picking his way through the carnage was an unpleasantly familiar man. Pale blond hair, pale blue eyes, bedecked in a crisp, white suit—the man appeared almost angelic in a decidedly un-angelic way. Perhaps the spreading bloodstain on his jacket ruined the effect.

"This isn't what you want, Alex," repeated the man.

"Yassen?" To Alex, it sounded as if he were speaking underwater. "But – but you're dead."

Ignoring him, the assassin continued, "Don't let your emotions make decisions for you."

_I already know that,_ thought Alex. "Why are you here? I saw you shot on Air Force One. I saw you die."

"Don't do things that you'll regret later. Always stay in control." With that piece of non-sequitur advice, Yassen turned and walked away.

In the destruction and death, so familiar yet so foreign, Alex stood alone, feeling a painful twist in his gut worm its way through his torso. Up his chest, around his lungs, over his heart...

"Yassen! _Yassen!" _he called, uncertain of what he wanted, just knowing that he didn't want to be left alone.

Not realizing it, tears began to trickle down his cheeks. The droplets splattered onto the ground like rain. _(Or, perhaps, blood.)_ Mere inches away, a blank, nameless face stared up at him, never to cry or laugh or love again.

"Aww, Aleeex," cooed another familiar voice, distinctly female this time.

And, finding himself cradled into a gentle embrace, Alex was no longer by himself.

"Don't cry, baby. I'll make things _all _better."

Suddenly, the grip around Alex was too tight and warm. A cocoon of overwhelming heat crawled across his skin and stole away his breath. Much in the same way as a bird knew of spring, he knew that he needed to escape. Or he would suffocate right in the arms of the one who loved him most.

He struggled and thrashed and kicked, but the arms around him remained firmly clamped.

"I won't let you go until I make things better, Alex." Soft fingers reached up to brush away the tears glimmering down Alex's cheek. "Just you wait."

The other hand now clenched a knife to the boy's stomach. Then, the smooth blade was slicing. Down, down, through his pale skin and into his livid bowels, making a clean cut and rendering so much _pain_. Chased by the fiery sensation into a hidden niche of his mind, Alex watched detachedly, equally horrified and fascinated, as the knife disappeared again and again into his stomach.

The red hair in his vision blurred.

"_Jack," _he pleaded. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making things all better, dear. _Can't you see?_"

* * *

With a gasp, Alex shot up abruptly in his bed.

Peering concernedly at him, Sebastian said, "You're finally awake. For a boy wi' so many enemies, ye sleep like the dead."

At the mention of _dead_, phantom twinges danced up the length of Alex's abdomen. "I...had a nightmare?"

"Certainly sounded like it." A curious expression possessed the man's face. "'S'probably no' my place to ask, but when you were saying _Yassen_, were ye referrin' to Yassen _Gregorovich?_"

Alex blanched, anxiety coursing through him before he quickly regained control. "I wasn't aware that any other Yassen existed."

As Sebastian digested the confirmation, curiosity was rapidly displaced by worry. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alex cut him off.

"What was I saying in my dream?" the youth asked, his voice as sharp as the concerned crease in his brows.

"Well...it seemed like ye were talkin' to some folk. There was this guy, Jack—"

"Jack's a girl," Alex corrected automatically.

Nodding his acknowledgment, the solider continued, "—that ye were pleading with. And before that, ye kept exclaiming 'Yassen'. Ye said..." He faltered momentarily, then took a deep breath. "Ye said that ye watched him get shot on Air Force One. Is that true?"

Sebastian tried to gauge the boy's reaction, but Alex had turned his face away, grumbling something like, "It's not your place to know, is it?"

The realization that he needed to tread carefully around this subject dawned upon Sebastian.

He cleared his throat. "If you've gone up against Gregorovich an' survived—hell, if ye were even in his _presence _when he died—I'd hate to think of what else you've seen. Have ye...have ye talked to someone about it?"

Alex sent him a baleful look. "And just who do you think I can talk to? My friends?"

"I mean a psychotherapist."

"I don't _have _a psychotherapist."

Shock jaunted through Sebastian's brain and into his hazel eyes. "Hasn't MI6 assigned ye one?"

"No." One word, so simple yet so revealing about the way MI6 regarded Alex.

"...We need t'discuss this later." The man glanced at his watch, a simple piece meant merely to keep time. "It's seven o'clock now. Ye should get dressed and eat breakfast so that I can take ye to school."

_What a perfect way to start a Monday_, Alex lamented, _with a particularly vocal nightmare that had _not _fallen on deaf ears._

He didn't know until nearly an hour later, when he and Sebastian were sitting in a car that failed to start, that his day was going to become considerably worse.

"I think I need t'call somebody," said Sebastian.

"Way to state the obvious." The seats that Alex was staring at might once have been gray. They were now so stained that he could hardly tell. "How old is this thing? The same age as you?"

"Right funny," griped Sebastian, with his mobile pressed to his ear. "Ye should consider a career in comedy."

"_Who should consider a career in comedy?_"

Alex's eyes widened as he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

"_Is that Wolf_?" he mouthed.

Sebastian shrugged apologetically, speaking into his phone, "Naebody. But my car broke down—"

"_About time. But it's too bad that it didn't last another week, 'cos now I owe Aiden __a tenner__."_

"—Look, I don' care about yer stupid bet. I need a ride right now."

"_Right now?"_

"Is that an echo I hear?"

"_I haven't even gotten out of bed!_" Silence on the other end, before, "_Fine, but you owe me. I'll be there in a few._"

The call ended, and Sebastian glanced up to see a glower painted over Alex's handsome features.

"I could always take the tube," said the boy.

"MI6 willnae allow it."

Gazing at Alex's crossed arms and slouched form, Sebastian decided that—legendary MI6 spy or not—Alex was still very much a teenager: a teenager who was susceptible to fits of sulking, just like the rest of his peers. Unable to contain his amused smile, the man turned away. The rest of the wait was spent in silence.

It was effectively shattered by the growl of Wolf's motorcycle. Gaping slightly, Alex stared at the sleek, black vehicle that prowled up beside Sebastian's beat-up sedan. A BMW logo was embedded into its side.

K-Unit's leader removed his helmet and bent down to rap on the driver's window. Subsequently, Sebastian opened his door.

A faintly accented voice—fifty percent English, fifty percent Italian, and one hundred percent groggy—drifted into the car. "Where do you need to go?"

"Actually, it's no' me who needs a ride." Sebastian indicated at the figure in the seat beside him. MI6's youngest agent was fighting the urge to sulk or shrink away. "Alex needs t'get t'school."

The next words out of Wolf's mouth were both very creative and very colorful.

"Gabe!" admonished the Scot. "Don' swear in front o' kids!"

In response to Sebastian's words, the SIS and SAS agent snorted simultaneously, a fact that they both found somewhat disturbing.

"_This_ is the kid MI6 asked you to look after?" Gabriele raked a hand through his coarse, dark hair, examining Alex with dismayed disbelief.

To keep from complaining that he was _not_ a kid, Alex had to bite his lip. His confidence in Sebastian's ability had plummeted to zero, faster than a stock market crisis.

He glared at the guardian. "You honestly think this is less dangerous than taking the tube?"

Indignant, Gabriele defended himself, "Are you suggesting that I'm a reckless driver?"

At the same time, Sebastian shrugged helplessly. "Orders are orders, Alex." Then he shot a dubious glance at the other man. "I don' think Alex was suggestin' that yer a reckless driver so much as suggestin' that the combination of you an' him is rather...explosive."

Perhaps a little embarrassed, Gabriele said, "That was during training. We're not in training anymore."

"If you guys are done arguing," Alex cut in fluidly, "can we go? I'd rather not be late to school." Under his breath, he muttered, "_Again_."

The two SAS soldiers shared a pointed _look_.

"Sure thing," said Gabriele, producing a helmet for the boy. "Alex, right?"

Pulling the helmet over his head with a neat motion, Alex nodded. "Mr...?"

"Bianchi," answered the man. "But you can call me Gabe."

"Aww, I'm so proud o' ye, already taking the first steps to get along." Sebastian sniffed mockingly, wiping at non-existent tears. "Well, Alex's school is Brookland. Do ye know where that is?"

A nod.

"Okay, an' kin ye also pick him up in the afternoon?"

Another absent nod, before Gabriele realized what he was agreeing to.

"_What?" _he squawked, dark eyes widening comically. "I didn't sign up for this! You're the guardian here!"

"Please?" An expert pout complemented Sebastian's pleading expression. "...I cannae get my car fixed by this afternoon. Fact is, I think I'll have to buy a new one."

"You're twenty-seven, so don't even _think_ those puppy dog eyes are going to work on me," snapped Gabriele. "Fine, get on, kid."

Alex did so, hearing Wolf gripe under his breath:

"What happened to your parents? Did they not want you anymore?"

The boy's lips set into a hard line, but he was saved from replying when the motorcycle started up. It rumbled into the street, and the engine drowned out everything else. Alex hoped that Gabriele would forget about the inquiry.

Fifteen minutes later, they were thundering up to the front gate of Brookland School. The congregated students looked up in unison, gawking with blatant awe. Alex tried to ignore them as he disembarked.

"Hey," protested Gabe, when the boy began to step away, "you never answered my question."

_So he hadn't forgotten_, thought the boy_. Just my luck_.

Gabriele found a pair of hardened eyes staring into his, set in a frigid expression that was dappled by sunlight through storm clouds.

"My relatives are dead," Alex said flatly. "My guardian is in the hospital."

With those words, the boy turned and walked away.

* * *

_To Be Continued_

Outraged readers scream, "HOW COULD YOU WRITE A CLICHE? CUUUUUURSE YOU!"

I'm sorry. It was commissioned for SpyFest, and no one is sadder about the clichedness than I am. Also, please, there's no need to tell me about SAS structuring and the impossibility of my fic. I am fully aware, thanks to a certain person (cough-tyz-cough :).

Review?


	2. Perched On The Soul

_...perched on the soul_.

According to Tom, Alex's morning spectacle was spawning a fresh wave of gossip. Alex claimed that pulling up in a motorcycle could not be labeled as a spectacle. Tom disagreed.

James Hale just wanted the both of them to shut up. Ordinarily, he was a tolerant boy, but all throughout the day, he had been subjected to Tom and Alex's constant bickering. Now, in maths, his last and favorite class, his tolerance was stretched to a breaking point.

Swiveling around in his seat, he snapped, "Let's all agree that people like to gossip about Alex, okay? Now, shut up. I can't hear what the teacher's saying."

It turned out that the teacher wasn't actually talking about maths. Instead, he was waving a paper slip in front of the class.

"We were told to remind our students of this. Make sure to get your permission slip signed and turned in by tomorrow, if you want to go to the field trip on Friday. Class dismissed."

Chatter and shuffling could be heard throughout the classroom as students stood, gathering their books. Together, the three boys walked out of the room and into a bustling hallway.

Heading toward their lockers, Tom admitted, "I almost forgot about the trip."

"Me too." Alex rubbed his neck absently, concentrating on his combination.

The door opened with a _pop, _and as Alex packed his bag, he wondered if Sebastian's signature constituted a 'guardian's approval'. Since the man was acting _in loco parentis_, his signature should have been binding. Even if it wasn't, Alex wouldn't mind. After toiling with the Royal & General for so long, he could no longer look at a bank without distaste clouding his judgment; and because the field trip destination was a local bank, Alex did not have a very good feeling about it.

"How could you forget?" asked James, pulling the other from further contemplation. "It means we get to miss school." He then aimed a speculative look at Alex. "Hey, you won't be pulling another disappearing act on us again; will you?"

Quite obviously, the boy referred to Alex's actions during their field trip, earlier in the year. Alex had slipped away to steal a flashdrive for MI6, and it had precipitated in Tom faking sick, so that Alex could climb off the roof of their bus and tumble back inside.

_Oh, the drama._

"Depends on if I'm feeling badass or not," Alex joked lightly, the tone of his voice incongruous with his darker thoughts.

Tom winked. "If you asked any girl in our school, they'd say you're always badass." Imitating a high-pitched squeal, he ran his hands intrusively over Alex's bicep. "Ohmygod, Alex! Your muscles are so _hot_!"

Near them, several girls in their grade were giggling at Tom's antics. James was trying not to choke on his laughter, and Alex was attempting to hide his smile behind a scowl. With a practiced movement, he sent Tom flying into a locker.

"Ow." The victimized boy shot a glare at his friend.

Rolling his eyes, Alex extended a hand to help Tom straighten up. "That should teach you about the consequences of molesting me."

"That wasn't molestation. Right, James?"

As guffaws continued to spill from his lips, James was helpless to do anything except shake his head in disagreement. Mock hurt colored Tom's long-suffering sigh, and sticking his nose into the air pretentiously, he stalked away. Alex and James merely grinned at each other before following.

The moment that they exited the front gate, Tom lost all traces of faux suffering. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, nearly causing James to collide into him.

"Alex!" Eyes round as twin moons, the dark-haired boy indicated at a familiar black motorcycle, parked once again in front of their school. "He dropped you off, and now he's here to pick you up? Who _exactly_ is this guy?"

A blush spread over Alex's cheeks. "Like I said earlier, he's a friend of my guardian."

Apparently, a person behind them disagreed. "Hey, Rider! That your boyfriend?"

Alex turned, confronting a freckle smattered face. Flanked by two other thugs, Jake Lewis, a member of Alex's football team, was advancing toward them with a cocky swagger. During matches, Jake purposefully embarked on injuring Alex. During school, he purposefully embarked on making Alex's life miserable.

"I always knew you were a fag," Jake continued.

Glowering, Alex shot back, "Ask your mum, and she'll disagree with you."

Being as slow as he was, it took a moment for the other boy to digest Alex's implications. When he did, however, his features twisted with an ugly anger.

"You _bitch_!" Not caring that they were still on school property, Jake threw a fist—

—which Alex easily caught, and for a moment, they merely looked at each other.

Jake's heaving breaths were fueled by adrenaline, just as Alex's dispassionate response was fueled by annoyance.

"Don't do anything stupid," the MI6 agent warned quietly, feeling the other tremble. "I know that's a lot to ask from a person like _you, _but we both know who would win in a fight."

"I..." Jake's reply trailed off, and his jaws slackened as he caught sight of the man stalking up behind them.

"Is there a problem here?" the man asked, cradling his motorcycle helmet in one arm.

His appearance wasn't particularly frightening: a short stature, clad in jeans and a black shirt. Nonetheless, he looked like the type of bastard who could break bones; and cowering in his expensive trainers, Jake decided that he rather liked his bones. Fortunately and ironically, Alex was the one to save him from answering.

"No, there isn't a problem." Without sparing a glance at Jake's livid expression, the spy said a quiet good-bye to his friends and left with Gabriele.

* * *

Outside, darkness had crept forth, settling over the buildings, streets and people. Within the kitchen of a certain flat, however, two SAS soldiers had lit the room brightly, dispelling all signs of night. Both were nursing beer cans, and one was voicing his concern:

"I think he needs a psychotherapist."

"That's what I've been thinking," agreed the second man, taking a sip of his drink. "He had a nightmare last night. D'you know what he was going on about?" He didn't wait for his companion's response. "_Yassen Gregorovich_. Apparently, he was on Air Force One wi' the guy when he died."

The first man's knee-jerk reaction involved a lot of expletives, falling fluently from his gaping mouth.

"...Definitely needs a psychotherapist," he repeated tersely, when he recovered.

"Aye, so what made _you _think he needed one, Gabe?"

"Two reasons. Firstly, when I picked him up this afternoon, he almost got into a fight with another boy."

"Almost?"

"The other kid threw a punch, but he had no trouble catching it. Made me feel like he was getting some shit at school."

"An' the second reason?"

Gabriele sighed. "I was a bit of an arse this morning—"

"No surprise there."

Leveling his companion with a shriveling glare, he continued, "Asked him if his parents didn't want him anymore. Turns out, his relatives are dead and his guardian is in the hospital. Did you know that, Seb?"

Worriedly, Sebastian began to fidget with his can. "MI6 didnae tell me the exact details, but I know some shit has happened t'him."

"Do you think...," Gabriele hesitated, pausing to clear his throat. "Do you think he'd want to visit his guardian in the hospital?"

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. "Are ye offerin' t'drive him?"

Scoffing, the team leader tried to defend himself. "Well, if it were _my _parents, I'd be desperate to see them. I'd probably sneak out if I had to. And, besides, it doesn't have to be _me _giving the ride. You could always call up Aiden or Ben."

"Aiden? Yer sure that's a good idea? I mean, he's no' exactly—"

The other man's reply was cut off by a banging sound that emitted from the hallway. Sharing a _look _with his fellow soldier, both rose simultaneously from their positions. Sebastian led the way to the bathroom, from where the noise seemed to have originated.

"Alex? Yer no' committin' suicide in there, are ye?" He tried to keep his voice light.

Muffled swearing could be heard. "No, why would you assume that?"

"'Coz bathrooms are where suicides generally occur?"

Gabriele's expression eloquently expressed, "_What the hell?_"

"_What?" _Apparently, Alex agreed with the shorter man's sentiments.

The boy's strangled tones did not bode well for his guardian. "Alex, are ye decent?"

"...Yeah?"

"Right then, I'm coming in."

"What? No—"

Alex's deterrent came too late, for the door had already swung open. The two men found themselves staring at the youth, who seemed to be searching in vain for his shirt. All words died on their lips as they caught sight of Alex's chest. Illuminated by the harsh lighting, a shiny, white scar slashed a prominent line across the pallid skin.

Inadvertently, Gabriele let loose a hiss of sympathy.

"What the hell happened?" Sebastian was gesturing at Alex's scar.

A scowl could be seen just as Alex angled his head away. In such a mundane setting—framed by blue shower curtains, toothbrushes, a scratched mirror—he seemed even more remarkable than usual.

"MI6 happened. That's what."

As myriad questions sped through their heads, confusion diffused over the SAS agents' faces. Was Alex saying what they _thought _he was saying? Was he implying that MI6 had tried to assassinate him? If so, how had he survived?

Sebastian asked at long last, "What – what do you mean?"

Sighing, Alex finally found his shirt and pulled it over his form. The clothing might have hidden the scar, but it did not hide the knowledge of the scar's existence.

"If MI6 had never gotten involved in my life," the boy elaborated, "I would never have been the target of assassination attempts."

"How did you survive?" questioned Gabriele. "The wound's right above your heart."

Under his breath, the other man parroted a line that Alex had used the night before. "He's invincible. Did ye no' get the memo?"

But gazing at the boy's weary countenance, both knew the truth. Although Alex deserved respect, he was far from invincible. He was merely a teenager, not even old enough to shave. Yet he was old enough to be manipulated by intelligence heads—

_("You're never too young to die.")_

—and old enough to be targeted by assassins.

After a long moment of silence, Sebastian said in hushed tones, "How recent was it?"

"Does it really matter?" Alex didn't meet their eyes. He preferred for the past to stay in the past. "It was several months ago."

"Who did it?" This time, it was Gabriele voicing the inquiry.

"An assassin."

Gabe snorted, but Sebastian refused to let the matter rest. A memory had surfaced from earlier that day, a memory of sweat-slicked hair plastered against a grimacing face, of fluttering eyelashes and palpable desperation and strangled pleads.

"Was it Yassen Gregorovich?" asked the guardian.

Alex blinked. "...What? No. No, Yassen never tried to kill me..."

His neutral tone, coupled with the usage of Yassen's first name, suggested familiarity, and as the implications of his words sank in, two sets of eyes widened.

"Gregorovich is – _was _an assassin," said Sebastian.

"Yassen never killed children," the spy argued tiredly, just wanting the interrogation to end.

"And you would know that _how?" _demanded Gabriele, his face flushed slightly with aggravation.

"We...exchanged words."

Attempting to remain calm, Sebastian took in a deep breath. "Lemme get this straight: Ye exchanged words wi' Yassen Gregorovich, a man who never revealed 'imself except t'people he trusted. An' obviously, ye felt comfortable enough to call him by his first name. So tell me now: What exactly was your relationship with him?"

In the deep recesses of his mind, Alex blanched. Yassen was... Yassen was a person he avoided thinking about, as much as possible. Now, forced to acknowledge the odd relationship that he'd once shared with the dead assassin, Alex was uncertain of what to say.

A long moment later, he asserted, "I don't have to answer that."

_I don't _have _an answer for that._

* * *

Sebastian placed a piece of paper before Alex, distracting the youth from shoveling eggs down his throat.

The boy swallowed his current mouthful. "Whassat?"

"The permission slip for yer field trip. I forgot t'give it t'you last night."

"Oh." Alex returned to eating.

With awkwardness prevailing in his actions, the man sank into a seat beside the boy.

"Alex." He cleared his throat. "Remember when I mentioned that ye needed a psychotherapist?"

The metallic clattering of a fork against a plate punctured the silence.

Slowly, Alex said, "Yes..."

Sebastian felt foolish for taking a steadying breath; honestly, the boy wasn't _that _intimidating. "Well, I think that ye just need someone to talk to. Aiden, _Eagle, _was studying psychology before he joined the SAS, an' he's giving you a ride t'school today, so—"

Suddenly, Alex was on his feet.

"What?" His voice came out raspy yet outraged. "No! I don't _need _to talk to anyone, okay? I'm fine."

"Why, Cub," said a sneering voice behind them. "What a classic _denial _line."

Distracted by the pounding of his own heartbeat, Alex had not noticed the entrance of the new man. Cursing himself for the blunder, the youth turned around to see a tall brunet. The sharp angles of the man's face highlighted the disdain monopolizing his features. His clothing, a blue shirt and slacks, looked to be the kind that was labored over by sweatshop workers, then sold for much higher than it was worth at a store with more mannequins than live customers.

"Eagle," Alex said blandly.

"That's me. Or, rather, Aiden Reid." He gave the boy a scornful once-over. "You look a lot older than you used to."

"You as well."

Eagle—Aiden—chuckled. Somehow, he managed to appear both condescending and impressed at the same time.

"So the kid isn't completely devoid of intelligence," he commented to the other SAS soldier, ignoring Alex's presence expertly. However, the next moment, his words were directed at the teen, "Ready to go, Cub?"

With a sigh, the boy pushed away his plate and went to retrieve his book bag. Quietly, Sebastian followed.

When they were both alone in the sitting room, the man admitted, "Look, Aiden's a wee bit of a..."

"Bastard?" supplied the MI6 agent.

Sheepishly, Sebastian nodded. "But he means well, I promise. Just don' let 'im get to ye."

Alex's tone was dismissive. "After all that I've been through, I think I can handle a guy like him."

"Talking about me behind my back, are we?" Aiden had joined them. Rather than looking pained by their words, though, he looked pained by their presence—as if they were particularly irritating lower life forms. Seeing that Alex had his bag, he said, "Okay, let's get the hell out of here. See you later, Seb."

Alex turned, using the opportunity to aim a well-practiced glare at his guardian. "Bye, Sebastian."

_Thanks for making my life more miserable_.

Although they were five floors up, Alex insisted on using the stairs 'just in case something happened'. Under his breath, the former psych student had griped something snide like, "Paranoid, much?", which Alex readily ignored. When they reached the street, the man indicated at a black sedan.

Unlocking its doors, he prompted, "Well, get in."

Sighing, the boy assented. This was going to be a long car ride, he just knew.

In silence, Aiden started the ignition and pulled out onto the road. The tire hummed against the wet pavement, compensating for the silence. As they gained speed, Alex absorbed the changing scenery dully. Mundane snapshots of life flashed by—a mother with her baby, a group of boys on their way to school, an old woman carrying bags upon bags of groceries. None of the passing pedestrians offered to help her, Alex noted sadly.

"Tell me about your dreams."

Abruptly, the spy was expelled from his thoughts.

"Huh?" was his eloquent response.

A roll of the eyes accompanied an excessively slow clarification. "Your. Dreams."

"Why should I?"

"Because I told you to."

"And if I don't?"

Aiden spared him a cold glance. "I'll tell Sebastian, and then he'll _worry _and _dote."_

Snorting, Alex looked back out the window. "I could always lie."

"You could, but that would just be a waste of your time and mine."

Silence elapsed. Trying to distract himself, Alex proceeded through a mental checklist of all his coursework due dates. More and more often, however, he found himself returning to Aiden's request. Curiosity was overriding his reluctance, and he supposed that a dream interpretation could prove to be entertaining.

"_Tell me about your dreams."_

_What harm could result from that?_ he wondered. Perhaps, he could just censor the parts that he didn't want to share...

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Everyone's wearing yellow."

Shooting him a contemptuous _what-the-hell-is-that-supposed-to-mean_? look, Aiden said, "I'm starting to see why Seb and Gabe think you're crazy."

"No, no. I'm talking about my dream." Catching sight of the man's reluctant understanding, Alex continued, "Everyone's wearing a yellow raincoat except me."

"...Yellow," said Aiden slowly, "can be associated with a number of things. Happiness, but also guilt. Raincoats, on the other hand, are an object of protection from rain, which generally has the connotation of gloominess and depression. The fact that you're not dressed like everyone else may result from the subconscious belief that you're different, singled out from the crowd. While everyone else is happy and protected, you're not. And seeing the yellow is like seeing your guilt reflected back at you. Tell me, Cub, what have you done that deserves guilt?"

By this time, Alex was trying not to gape. "I – I think you may be related to my English teacher. She over-examines everything too."

Aiden released a derisive snort of laughter as he glided to a stop in front of Brookland. "You're avoiding my question."

"You're stating the obvious." Before Aiden could say anything else, Alex pushed open the door and escaped the car.

Just to spite the man, he slammed the door with more force than necessary, but when he turned around, he immediately regretted his action. The sound had attracted more attention to him—as if there wasn't enough attention directed at him already. Faces turned in his direction, and hissing whispers sprang into the air. Alex was beginning to see his peers' shock so often that he would soon be able to conjure their expressions in his sleep.

Coming up beside him, Tom Harris grinned evilly. "A new ride again, Alex? People are gonna start thinking you're a man-whore."

Alex sighed.

* * *

In times like these, he felt like a little boy, lost in an impossible world. _Alex in Wonderland_, he thought with a snort.

At the front of the room, the teacher lectured about population fluctuations in Southeast Asia, droning on and on as he paced the short distance between the desks and the board. Alex found it difficult to keep his eyes from wandering toward the windows. Glass separated him from the world outside. Although the rain had halted temporarily, a howling wind tore fitful gusts through the naked branches of the trees.

Suddenly, Alex wished the windows were opened just a bit, enough for the sounds of nature to reach his ears and the damp earth smells to waft down his throat. Enough for him to stifle the heavy feelings of captivity, caused by the institution he was trapped within.

Since when had he thought of Brookland as a prison?

_Since Jack had been harmed_, answered a voice in his mind.

The lines separating his two lives had started to fade. School was something forced upon him, something he couldn't escape if he cared about the future. Spying was something forced upon him as well, something he wished he could run from but couldn't, for the sake of the world's future.

His existence comprised of nothing more than being a weapon for MI6—

_(A danger to his enemies.)_

—and a liability for his loved ones.

_(A danger to his friends.)_

He... He just wanted to know how Jack was doing.

In times like these, he felt like a little boy, lost in an impossible world.

* * *

Sterile.

Familiar white walls. Cold floors. Desolate hallways.

As Alex rounded a corner, his destination came into view. In the background, the three K-Unit members were conversing quietly, but in the space that Alex occupied, nothing existed except silent thoughts of life and death—of beginnings, middles, and ends.

Steady lights illuminated his tense posture, revealing a shadow of flickering emotion behind his façade of composed features. Near the ceiling, a round faced clock ticked unvaryingly, in time with his drumming heart. He sighed and stepped forward, treading lightly across the burnished linoleum, subconsciously unwilling to disrupt St. Dominic's sterility.

Before him, a pair of guards was defending the door to Jack Starbright's room. Walking past them, Alex felt an uncomfortable prickle at the nape of his neck. One of the guards, a well-built man with piercing blue eyes, was staring at him with an odd expression. Unnerved, Alex sped past the guard and into the subsequent room. Understanding that the boy needed time alone, none of the SAS members deigned to follow.

The curtains were pulled shut, Alex noticed with a frown. Quickly, he went to fling them open, exposing an expanse of sky that had yielded to rain once more. He sighed.

(_Jack liked sunlight_.)

Arranged limply on the pillow, a halo of lank, red hair framed a face that was ashen as a white rose. Petal pink lips were parted just slightly; fragile skin and delicate limbs were weighed down by IVs and other medical contraptions. Beside the bed, gifts and cards piled up on the surface of a pale-wood stand. They were left unopened.

Alex dropped into a nearby chair, cradling his head in his hands. He found himself yearning for a time when she was still untainted by his world, a time when she could still laugh, brightly and sincerely as she biked down an open road, without holding onto handlebars.

"_I'm flying!"_ she'd sing.

But, as Alex knew all too well, those who could fly could also fall.

Softly, he cleared his throat, reaching forward to shake her shoulders gently.

"Jack."

A faint gasp. Sleepy eyes fluttered open to regard him with a tired look. Slowly but surely, a glow of delight diffused over her expression.

"...Alex! You came to visit me!" Weak and raspy from disuse, Jack's voice still managed to infuse the room with happiness.

"Indeed, I have." His raised eyebrows said '_Oh, really? I hadn't noticed__.'_, but his burgeoning smile said '_Of course, I came_.'

"How did you get here?"

"My temporary guardian." He didn't mention that the guardian had coerced a friend into giving them a ride, that another friend of his guardian had tagged along, and that all three were waiting for him in the hallway. If he did, Jack would insist that they cut the meeting short, on the grounds of not wanting to impose on the good will of others.

"Did MI6 assign the guardian?" Jack was trying to sit up, but Alex's hands stayed her movements.

"Don't," he said, addressing her futile attempts. "You're still weak. And, yes, MI6 did assign the guardian."

"Oh, Alex." Her eyes shone with apology. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, he's pretty laid back." Not about to inform Jack that Sebastian was also a member of his SAS unit, Alex changed the subject. "How are you?"

"I'm doing just fine, considering my current predicament. I can't wait to get out of here, though. Hospitals are so depressing."

Alex chuckled in agreement. "The doctor said that you should be released on Saturday. By that time, all of poison's effects should be gone from your system."

Making a face, Jack said, "I wish I'd realized what had happened sooner. At first, I was just convinced that I had eaten some bad sushi."

"Jack." A sigh. "You shouldn't _have_ to consider anything other than bad sushi. It's not your fault... It's mine. I don't know why you put up with me and my problems."

The American was quick to admonish him. "Don't start with that line of thinking, young man. Unless a life is lived for others, it's not worthwhile. And if it's not my fault, it's not yours either."

"Then whose fault is it?"

"The restaurant's, obviously. When I get out of here, I'm going to sue them."

Alex didn't know whether to laugh or to grimace. "Suing isn't the answer to everything, Jack."

"That's right. Suing is the _question_, and the answer is _yes_!" she defended fiercely.

This time, Alex actually did laugh. "You have to remember that the restaurant also wasn't at fault for poisoning you. SCORPIA was."

"Whatever, Alex." Her hands were very expressive, and at the moment, they were flapping at him dismissively.

"What-_ever,_" he imitated, copying her mannerisms exactly.

Giggling, she complained, "It's not fair that you can sound so American. I can't even mock you for butchering my accent."

_It's not fair that, on missions, honing my accent means the difference between life and death. _As soon as the thought passed through his head, Alex averted his eyes, feeling guilt course through him. If he had voiced those words, he knew that he would have upset Jack.

"That's good. Adults are supposed to be mature," he said.

"On the outside, I may be an adult. But, on the inside, I'm still very much a child." She winked at him. "So, how is school going?"

"Good."

"Keeping up in classes? Getting good grades?"

"If I weren't, do you think I'd tell you the truth?"

She laughed. "Good point."

Then, abruptly, the sound changed from a laugh to a hacking cough. Like a sudden hurricane, it seized her by force and ravaged her body, leaving her weak and shaky.

"Sorry," she finally managed, blinking watery eyes and running an unsteady hand through her hair.

"Don't be." He stood up. "I should leave you to rest."

With a slow exhale, she nodded. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. I'll see you soon, though, right?"

"Of course," he assured.

They exchanged their goodbyes. He told her to get well soon, she said she would, and on his way out, Alex heard her calling after him:

"Thanks for opening the curtains!"

A smile tugged at his lips, but as soon as he stepped out of the room, his expression quickly dissipated.

Confused, he surveyed the scene. Sebastian and Gabriele were flushed, as if they had just engaged in a heated argument. A dangerous glint was flashing in Gabe's eyes, and beside him, Aiden's face was masked by a cold, calculating stare. All three were gazing at the blue-eyed guard, the one who had discomfited Alex earlier. The other guard was standing off to the side, attempting to ignore the proceedings.

"What's going on here?" Alex heard himself asking.

"Henderson here was just explaining some pretty interesting lies to us." Gabriele's arms were folded, a subconscious gesture of defiance.

At the same time, the blue-eyed man—Henderson—said, "Well, speak of the devil."

A feral smile accompanied his bitter words.

_Stay calm, _Alex told himself. _Don't jump to conclusions_.

"And... What has he been saying?" asked the boy quietly, sounding much more controlled than he felt.

"Oh, I've just been wondering why MI6 would waste so much manpower—" Henderson indicated at himself and his fellow guard. "—on a traitor like _you_."

Silence. Then, "...Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said," spat the man. "I was there the night that you shot the Deputy Head of MI6 for SCORPIA. In fact, I was the first person in the room after you pulled the trigger."

Realization, harsh and unpleasant, dawned upon Alex. Henderson must have been one of the nameless guards who had taken him down on that fateful night, so many months ago.

Swiftly, a bout of unexpected fatigue weakened Alex's will to argue. Only a small frown indicated his emotions.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" Henderson derided, his voice venomous.

Shaking his head softly, Alex turned and started down the hall.

"I don't owe you any sort of explanation," he said as he glanced over one shoulder, checking to see if his SAS teammates were following.

When they comprehended that he meant to leave, they accelerated to catch up with him. Closing his eyes momentarily, Alex could hear the echoing sounds of their purposeful steps. Expectant stares from all three men drilled into his back.

He couldn't deal with their inquires. Not now, at least.

"Please...don't," he requested, sighing. "Don't ask me anything yet."

* * *

_To Be Continued_

And that, my darlings, is how you put a new spin on an old cliché.

(Readers yell and heckle: "SHUT UP. STOP BEING SO FRIGGIN' ARROGANT!" Author shrinks away.)

...Review?


	3. And Valor Is A Soul

Sorry, guys! I didn't have time to do review replies for the last chapter, so I'd like to give my thanks to:

_Insanely Me, marisje, Levin, Ichihime, Talionyzero, EriKaBalDeL, cjpatel05, Adel Mortescryche, xlivilightx, May Eve, SweetlyDesolated, Lunatari, loser94, Mainn, BelovedAmy, hypercell, LivingRightNow, awesomnessness, Peachless, and Cirilia_.

I'd especially like to mention the anon reviewers, whom I never get to thank:

_Anonymous is a pretty bad name, Agent753, Amore, __Unclichd, AR-bookworm, Emma, amcj062, and bb!_

Y'all rock!

* * *

_And valor is a soul..._

Their self-imposed silence lasted until they seated themselves into Aiden's car. Gabriele was the first to speak. Or, perhaps, _growl _would be a more suitable word.

"Explain. Now." His tone left no room for negotiation.

Staring out the window into the steadily darkening sky, Alex shifted in his spot. _What was he supposed to explain? _he wondered. He didn't want to ask the others nor did he want to _look _at the others.

Finally, he said, "My uncle, Ian, died last year. I had always thought he was a banker..."

Gabriele made an impatient noise, so Alex continued, "MI6 told me differently. They asked for my help and, when I declined, made various threats." Unbidden, memories from that time whelmed. He had been so naïve back then, like a bright-eyed child in a mysterious land. "I had no choice but to work for them. First, they sent me to SAS training. Then, they sent me on missions."

"Is that how ye got shot?" Sebastian couldn't resist asking.

A wry smile twisted Alex's lips.

"Not exactly. I'm getting there, though." Registering his own words, Alex slowed down, pausing to think about what he _really _wanted to say. Censorship was a must, he knew. "I can't explain how much I hated the missions."

He didn't need to explain. The three men could hear the loathing in his voice. It was a dull sound that harbored resentment, _bitterness_, and it caused the wheels of Sebastian's memory to churn. He thought back to his younger brother, William. With Alex as a comparison, Sebastian now realized that William wasn't nearly as hardened as he could have been. For that, the man was thankful.

When he returned his attention to Alex's words, the boy was saying, "Sometimes, I'd run into Yassen Gregorovich. I knew he had killed my uncle, and I was very angry because of that."

There was a snort of laughter, and Gabriele and Sebastian turned to glare at Aiden. The latter was merely shaking his head, almost as if to say, _"Obvious, much?"_

Alex still did not look at any of them. "I thought Yassen would kill me too, and I was surprised when he admitted that he wouldn't. At the end of my fourth mission, I found out the reason behind this motivation. As he was dying on Air Force One, he told me that he had worked for SCORPIA with my father—"

At this point, Sebastian could not hold back a sharp intake of breath. Aggravated spots of color began to manifest upon Gabriele's cheeks.

"—He also told me to look for them: _Find SCORPIA, and you will find your destiny_." A harsh laugh welled from Alex's chest. "And so, like the stupid kid I was, I went to find SCORPIA."

"And how did _that _work out for you?" Aiden asked sarcastically.

"Not very well." Alex sighed and looked at his hands. Some might have said that he held destruction within them; others would have claimed that it was not destruction but salvation. "They told me the same thing as Yassen—that my father had been a contract killer. They turned me against MI6 and started to train me as an assassin."

He had no desire to see his team members' expressions, and even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to meet their gazes.

Thus, he barreled on, "The first assignment SCORPIA gave me was to kill my former employer, Mrs. Jones, Deputy Head of the Special Ops Division at MI6. Of course, by that time, MI6 had already learned of my betrayal. They were prepared."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sebastian watched uneasily as Gabriele's level of ire built; the unit leader's volatility rivaled that of a nuclear reactor. Aiden, on the other hand, was unreadable. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

"Well, I didn't kill Mrs. Jones. It's true that I pulled the trigger of my gun, but – but I was angling above her head. There was also a transparent barrier between us, and it shattered when the bullet hit, alerting the guards to my actions. I suppose that man, Henderson, was one of those guards..." Sadness flickered across his face, like clouds eclipsing a moon. "I rejoined MI6, and as suspected, SCORPIA wasn't too happy about my betrayal. They sent a sniper after me, and that's how I got shot..."

Sebastian opened his mouth, then closed it when he could conjure no words. Silence descended upon his lips like swiftly falling stars, and it accompanied the swirl of pitying relief that shot through his chest. An emotion akin to disgust resided there, too. After all, no child deserved to suffer through the situations that Alex had suffered through. The fact that Alex refrained from describing his missions was not lost on Sebastian either; the older man suspected that he would never be able to imagine, nor understand, the hardships that Alex had borne.

Helplessness was subsequent to his realization. As a member of the elite SAS, he was unfamiliar with not being able to assist others—unfamiliar with not being able to exercise valor.

Although his reaction differed vastly from Sebastian's, Gabriele felt much the same. As his dark eyes flashed even darker, his lips parted, ready to establish a piece of his mind until Aiden spoke first:

"Rejoining MI6, huh? How pathetically predictable."

"_You,_" Gabriele growled at the other man, "just shut up and drive."

Alex sighed. "Gabe, I know that you might be angry with me—"

Laughter, sharp and abrupt, halted the boy's words; Gabriele's tone was a mixture of outrage, shock, and incredulity. "Angry at _you_?"

The boy looked up. "You...aren't angry?"

Another bark of laughter. "Oh, I'm angry all right."

"...Then, who are you angry at?" Genuine confusion played across Alex's furrowed eyebrows, and Gabriele and Sebastian shared a _look._

Releasing a disbelieving snort, Aiden groused under his breath. "If MI6 has stooped to the level of recruiting idiotic teenagers like you, someone should just shoot me now."

The other three ignored him.

Unconsciously baring his teeth, Gabriele said, "Isn't it obvious? I'm pissed at MI6!—"

For a brief moment, Alex thought the man looked as dangerous as his namesake, 'Wolf'.

"—When you showed up at SAS training, I thought you were some sort of joke. But now I find out that you've been blackmailed to work for MI6 the whole time?"

"You saw me at Point Blank," muttered the boy, allowing a blonde lock to shield his eyes.

Gabriele merely shook his head. "I thought that was only a one time deal."

"Well..." _What could Alex say to calm the man down?_ "It wasn't. But it's over now, and I'd prefer not to discuss this any further."

"What do ye mean by_ it's over_?" Sebastian asked quietly.

Shrugging, Alex pushed a hand through his partly disheveled hair. "The Prime Minister doesn't want me to go on any more missions, so 'it's over'. At least, until I become a legal adult and MI6 starts recruiting me again."

As the members of his unit digested the words, all was quiet.

Alex sighed and turned his head to peer into the night again. Overhead, the moon glowed bright and white, a perfect disk of porcelain surrounded by a smattering of jewel-like stars. For him, the sight evoked wistful reminiscence of a simpler time. Once, during a vacation in the Italian countryside, Ian and he had stayed up all night under the dark blanket of sky. His uncle had quietly pointed out the stars and their respective names, and Alex had nodded each time, with a smile that wrested words away from his lips.

"Aren't you angry?"

If Alex hadn't been so adept at controlling his reactions, he would have jolted at the unexpected question. Nevertheless, his heart skipped a beat, before he recovered enough to glance back at the man who had spoken.

"Angry at what, Gabe?"

"MI6. Your enemies. The world."

"...Sometimes – sometimes, I am. Especially when someone close to me gets hurt," Alex said honestly. "But most times, I'm just..." Struggling slightly, he searched for the right word to describe his feelings. "I'm tired. I want the past to stay in the past."

And, with a start, he realized it was the truth. Thinking back to the rage he had experienced in Sebastian's kitchen, he decided that he didn't want the world to burn. He just wanted to be at peace.

Somewhere deep within him, a black hole of hurt was beginning to heal slowly.

He felt calmer than he had in a very long time.

* * *

He was dreaming again: a gun in his grasp, a target in his line of vision.

"This isn't what you want, Alex." With damp hair framing her face, Mrs. Jones was studying him through sad eyes.

He glanced around the dim penthouse, finding it clean and almost completely impersonal. Mrs. Jones was standing vulnerably in the center of the room, her silk bathrobe drawn about her susceptible form. Behind her, he could see a picture propped up on her fireplace mantle. Laughing faces, young and innocent, stared back at him.

"You're right," he admitted quietly. "This isn't what I want."

_Bang!_

Alex's breath hitched as confusion coursed through his body. Surely, he had not pulled the trigger!

Lips parting in a silent expression of pain, her hands flew to clutch her stomach tightly. Suddenly, however, she was no longer sinking onto the carpet but onto cold, gray pavement. Her hair wasn't dark and straight, but curly and a very familiar shade of red. Alex could see no bullet wound, but the woman was heaving breathlessly nonetheless.

"Jack!" He flew towards her—caught her as she collapsed onto the ground.

Frantically, he searched the vicinity: No cars, no pedestrians, not even a soul in the restaurant behind him. They were alone under the roiling storm clouds.

"A-Alex, everyth-thing w-will be...," she gasped and struggled, "ok-kay."

Then, all was silent except for her pained whimpering, his quiet tears, and the heresy of the rain.

* * *

Much to Alex's relief, Aiden refrained from interrogating him on Thursday morning. Instead, the man pressed a small business card into his hands.

"An old acquaintance of mine runs a psychiatric practice not too far from here," Aiden said, not bothering to look at the boy. "You should visit him sometime."

"Um. Okay." Alex looked from the card to the man, slightly skeptical.

"He does a lot of work with soldiers who have just returned from the front lines. He also understands the concept of confidentiality."

"Oh."

"So, will you see him?"

"Uh—"

Aiden fixed him with a piercing stare.

"—Yeah. Yeah, I'll see him," he agreed hastily.

Sharing his emotions had never held appeal for him, but he had also never subscribed to the _"woe is me", "let me wallow in my self-pity_" philosophy. If someone wanted to help him, he'd cooperate. With that resolve, he slid out of the car, once more ignoring the predictable stares.

At school, the excitement of the year ten students was tangible. It was hard to distinguish whether the boisterous buzz resided within the air or within the students; however, the cause of it was easily discernable. Exhilaration at the prospect of a field trip caused them all to laugh louder in conversations and concentrate less in classes. Yet, like always, Alex was an exception to the rules, and Tom didn't understand.

When they entered the cafeteria for lunch, Tom wasted no time in asking, "_Why? _Why aren't you excited like the rest of us?"

Alex merely shrugged. "What's there to be excited about? We're going to a _bank, _where they will talk to us about _banking procedures _and _career options."_

"But it still means we get to miss school," argued a boy at their same table, Peter. "Unlike you, the rest of us don't have the pleasure of skipping whenever we want to."

"I get sick a lot," Alex defended half-heartedly.

There was a collective snort of disbelief.

"That excuse is _so _old, Alex."

"You don't even believe it yourself. Do you honestly expect _us _to believe you?"

"Just tell us the truth, mate!"

"Yeah, we're your friends. We won't judge." James' smile was crooked, and as an afterthought, he added, "Much."

Assaulted by the torrential cajolery, Alex tiredly rubbed his temples. "How incredibly reassuring. But, really, I _do _get sick."

That wasn't a _complete _lie because everyone suffered from illness once in a while... Except Alex's not-lie only received scoffs from all around, and a little sadly, he realized that he wasn't fighting a losing battle. He had already _lost _the battle. Sighing, he returned to his food.

The rest of the school day passed as usual, but when he arrived home, a surprise awaited him.

Detachedly, he wondered when he had started thinking of the flat as _home, _aware that becoming attached was an unwise action, especially because Jack would be released on Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Returning to the house in Chelsea would be odd at first, he knew. The place would feel too large in comparison to Sebastian's flat.

Presently, the flat seemed even smaller because all of K-Unit was squished within, including a dark-haired man whom Alex had not seen since a desperate time in Australia.

"Ben."

A beat of silence.

From behind Alex, Aiden appraised the scene with one eyebrow arched speculatively. Sebastian and Gabriele's jaws were somewhat unhinged from astonishment, and they were looking back and forth between Alex's curious expression and Ben's sheepish smile.

"How did you know his name?" Gabriele blurted.

Alex tilted his head to the side, studying his fellow MI6 agent. With his robust blush and easygoing demeanor, Ben appeared much healthier than the last time they had met.

"You haven't told them yet?" the boy asked, directing his words over the heads of the SAS members.

As Ben shifted uneasily, the sofa springs beneath him creaked, turning their situation from _silent _to _almost-silent—_which was just as, if not more, awkward. Beside him, Gabriele was still staring, and across from them in a chair, Sebastian's face was also possessed by a similar shock.

"Er." Ben shrugged. "No."

"Oh." Alex felt as if he was a specimen under a microscope, and for a person who abhorred attention as much as he did, the experience was not pleasant in the least. "Fair enough. 'S'not like MI6 would approve."

"Yeah."

"...Um. How's your shoulder?"

"It's—" Aware of his ex-teammates' careful scrutiny, Ben felt unable to do more than continue with the stilted conversation. "Fine. The surgeons removed the bullet without any complications. I've got nothing but a scar, now."

"That's...great. I never did get a chance to apologize about what happened with my godfather, you know."

"That's okay. You can't choose your family, after all."

"Wait, what's this about yer godfather, Alex?" Sebastian had finally regained his speech faculties, and with his comment, most of the tension diffused out of the room.

"My godfather..." Gesturing vaguely, Alex grasped at how to continue. "He, uh, well… When I first met him, I thought he worked for the ASIS. Turned out that he actually worked for SCORPIA."

Gabriele, eyes wide and voice half-strangled, said, "You have one _messed up _family, Alex."

Alex released a low, humorless laugh. "I _had _a family. Don't have one anymore."

"What do ye call us, then?" asked Sebastian, motioning about the room with a sure hand.

Looking around the cramped sitting room, Alex blinked. Surely, one of the K-Unit would protest Sebastian's outlandish statement? But, as the silence stretched on, none of them did. Not even Aiden.

"Teammates?" the boy said at last.

There was something unusually warm in Gabriele's gaze. "Didn't anyone ever tell you? Your teammates _are _your family."

The words, said with so much confidence and so much finality, caused Alex's heart to lurch unexpectedly. As a young child playing in the park, he had always looked upon family gatherings with an indescribable ache. Of course, Ian—ever observant, ever intelligent Ian—would take notice and distract him, ruffling his hair warmly, like a summer breeze ruffling leaves. In later years, when Alex had learned to swallow the disappointment of not having a doting mother or a proud father, Ian had been stolen away from him by death.

And, in a similar way, Alex's life had been stolen away as well.

Now, in this..._odd _existence, perhaps he could accept the odd substitutes that claimed to be family? K-Unit certainly couldn't be any more dysfunctional than the family Alex had already met.

"Yeah," he said, a slow smile spreading over his face. "I guess you're right."

* * *

_Lloyds TSB_

Beside the carved words, a square sign was secured to the beige, stone overhang. After living in London for so many years, Alex had become very familiar with the bank's insignia. The bottom half was grass green, the top half was sky blue, and bisecting the two portions was a black horse in the midst of rearing its proud head. Passing beneath it, twenty-four of Alex's classmates swarmed eagerly into the bank. Unlike the young spy, though, none of them took time to study the surroundings.

The woman who greeted them was dressed in a tailored jacket, a smart skirt, and clacking heels. Her nametag proclaimed her to be _Andrea_, and she looked both frazzled and exhausted. Alex sympathized with her. Approximately two hundred year ten students attended Brookland School, and today, they had been separated into eight groups to stagger their visiting times. Alex's group was the last of the day.

"All of them are present?" he heard Andrea ask the head chaperon, Mr. Bates.

Mr. Bates nodded.

"All right." Andrea sighed and then raised her voice, allowing it to ring over the students' racket. "Please, come this way!"

Within the bank, the customer lines were not very long, and the group of teenagers skirted easily around them. Alex stayed in the back, walking alongside Tom, whose excitement had long since subsided. After all, there was nothing exciting about the bank. Its walls were an unobtrusive cream, and its marble floor was a warm hue of peach. Tellers worked at the front, as uniform as the large, potted plants arranged at decisive intervals on the floor.

Andrea was saying something about client services, but neither boy was paying much attention. Tom was experimenting with ways to use his iPod without being caught, and Alex was trying to repress his instincts, which were urging him to _leave now._ Uneasily, he ascribed them as a result of his setting. He'd never liked banks, and he'd never liked what could take place in banks.

Discomfited, his gaze wandered toward the large windows along the exterior wall. The world outside was framed in gray clouds, gray buildings, and gray pavement. The streets were mostly empty except...

Alex frowned, swiveling subtly to get a better angle on what he was seeing:

A clump of five men, all dressed casually. Tension prevailed in their movements, partially obscured by their large, dark jackets. When Alex noticed that each jacket was identical—bulky, generic, and easy to hide things in—his frown became more pronounced.

"Hey," Tom said, noticing the expression. "Something wrong?"

The other teen's eyes snapped toward his friend. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, no doubt clutching his iPod, Tom was peering at him with one eyebrow arched.

"Um—" Alex wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to worry his friend, but at the same time, he didn't want to lie. His instincts always proved to be too accurate for comfort, and right now, they were screaming about the suspicion posed by the group of men. "Do you see those people out there?"

Cocking his head to the side, Tom asked, "What people?"

"The ones over—" Turning back to the scene outside, Alex paused. The men were no longer in view, and alarm bells were beginning to ululate in his mind.

"Boys! Please stick with the group!" Andrea had noticed them lagging; her folded arms testified to impatience.

Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the windows, Alex opened his mouth to apologize politely, "Sorry, we were jus—"

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

A rapid succession of gunshots.

A series of panicked shouts and shrieks.

A rough command, issued by a masked man, "Everybody, down on the floor!"

Dragging the other teen with him, Tom dropped to the cool, marble floor, his hesitation chased away by fear. The screams had faded, and Alex quickly took inventory of the situation, cursing the accuracy of his instincts.

While most of the actual customers had fallen toward the center of the room, the teenagers had scattered toward the edges. Some of the wiser ones had ducked behind potted floral displays, and with fear evident in their eyes, they all peered up helplessly at the men.

In addition to their coordinated jackets, the five were also wearing black masks now. Each of them wielded a gun—except the leader who wielded two—and one duo also toted voluminous sacks. With quick motions, they had fanned out around the room, each carrying out a separate task.

A squat brunet shut the curtains and locked the doors, while a second man forced the tellers out from behind their work areas. At the same time, a taller blond shot the two bank security guards in the arms, effectively incapacitating them. Said action caused a cacophonous cocktail of winces, outraged cries, and pained yelps. Grimly, Alex determined that these men were not afraid to use violence.

If the situation were any less dire, he would have laughed at how Hollywood-esque the state of affairs was becoming. Most real-life robberies often took the form of 'note jobs', Alex knew. The criminal would walk in, pass a note to the teller informing him that a robbery was taking place, and then walk out with the money minutes later. If all went well, none of the other patrons would ever even know that the robbery had happened.

So, these men were either complete amateurs or unrivaled professionals.

"In case you haven't figured it out by now, this is a hostage situation." The leader sounded educated, an advantage for the robbers but a disadvantage for the hostages. From his voice, which was as rough as his coarse, sandy hair, Alex deduced that he probably smoked more than was advisable. "All of you, stay on the ground. Joey, here—" He gestured toward a redhead who was most likely not named Joey. "—will come around for your electronic devices. If you value your life, you'll do as you're told."

When he finished speaking, Joey began to comb through the people, holding out a sack for phones. All eyes turned to follow his progress, but out of the corner of his vision, Alex noticed a more subtle movement. Taking advantage of everyone's distracted state, a teller in her late twenties had inched an arm behind her counter. Alex couldn't see what she was doing, but he hoped dearly that she was activating some sort of silent alarm.

Not that it mattered. He, too, planned to alert the authorities.

_But he'd do it later_, he coached himself calmly. Timing was always important.

At the front of the room, the lead robber was requesting the bank manager to announce himself. Reluctantly, a suited, balding man stood up.

"I'm the bank manager," he croaked, nervously dusting at his jacket.

Just then, a pair of jean-clad legs blocked Alex's view of the scene. The boy looked up to see a pair of sneering, green eyes stare back at him.

Demanding their compliance nonverbally, Joey shook the sack at Tom and Alex.

With a soft sigh, Tom reached into his pockets to retrieve his mobile and iPod. Carefully, Alex matched the movement a moment later, when Joey's attention had diverted to Tom. Three deft presses of the number '_9'_were followed by a quick press of '_send__'_. Then, imitating Tom's apprehensive demeanor, Alex tossed his phone into the sack, the screen facing downwards.

The redhead suspected nothing, and having gained a small victory, Alex allowed himself an equally small, cold smile. Joey would never have surmised that the boy's phone linked directly to MI6, and so he moved on.

As soon as Joey finished his undertaking, the robbers transitioned facilely into the next stage of their plans. By now, it was obvious that their heist had been carefully premeditated.

Joey, the leader, and the other sack-carrying man headed to the elevator, presumably leading to the bank's vaults. They were hauling two people behind them: the protesting bank manager and a whimpering teller.

Before disappearing through the door, Joey joked to the remaining two men, "_Don't be scared to shoot 'em if they give you trouble,_" and Alex decided that he immensely disliked the man.

Now, only the squat brunet and the taller blond stood guard. Training both their eyes and their guns at the people, they began to pace the floor. Some of the hostages stared defiantly, but most averted their eyes. No one spoke, and the room descended into a tense silence, except for the quiet crying of a Brookland girl.

It was time to do something, Alex thought somberly. Even if the police arrived, they would have no way to breech the entrance without some sort of standoff. In addition to that problem, the injured security guards were bleeding heavily. Claret stains had blossomed over their shirts, and their hazy, fluttering eyes revealed acute pain. They needed medical help, and they needed it as soon as possible.

Apparently, Mr. Bates thought so as well.

Clearing his throat to gain the attention of the two robbers, the school-hired chaperon affected a firm tone. "Excuse me, but those two men are losing a lot of blood. I'm a doctor, and I _implore _you to let me help them."

Squat Brunet exchanged a suspicious look with Tall Blond.

There was a pause, and the room seemed to hold its breath in wait for their decision.

Finally, Tall Blond said, "Not a chance."

"Yeah, if they lose blood, then they lose blood," Squat Brunet added dispassionately.

As one, the occupants in the room seemed to deflate. Several outraged people looked as if they were about to protest, but Alex beat them to it—

"Hey, you!"

Squat Brunet and Tall Blond spun around to eye him with disdain. They weren't the only ones who had turned their gazes to Alex, though. Shaking their heads, several of the adults tried frantically to convey a message of _"Stop! Are you suicidal?"_ at him. Many of his classmates were regarding him with wide-eyed disbelief, appearing anxious and somewhat annoyed.

"What?" Irritated, Squat Brunet picked his way through the hostages until he was standing in front of Alex.

That's when Alex decided to act.

Springing up, he directed an elbow into the man's stomach and then a fist into his chin. Surprised, Squat Brunet went reeling backwards. Invariably, the grip on his gun loosened, and Alex swiftly tore the weapon away. He made a quick job of hooking the man's knee with his leg, sending him tumbling to the hard, unforgiving floor. A foot to the temple resulted in instant unconsciousness, and Alex turned his attention to Tall Blond.

Suddenly, Alex was no longer a hostage in a bank robbery.

He was a SCORPIA trainee in a lesson, expertly aiming his gun at the provided target—

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

And the target keeled over, an anguished expletive falling from his lips. Just like his victims, he had also been shot in the arms, and being preoccupied by his wounds, he allowed the gun to slip from his fingers.

Tom, who was still crouching on the floor, decided that his friend deserved a medal for irony.

Of course, the reactions of the other hostages differed vastly—from awe to fear to slack-jawed stupefaction. Gradually, however, those sentiments were displaced by a realization of newfound freedom. Under the kaleidoscopic chandelier lights, the hostages began to stir.

Some eyed the elevator doors concernedly, almost as if they expected the other three robbers to appear. Others continued to stare at Alex, and with a practiced nonchalance, Alex pretended not to notice. Instead, he moved through the rousing masses and concentrated on kicking the discarded gun out of Tall Blond's reach. Swearing fluently, Tall Blond tilted his head up to see a lithe figure looming over him. The figure held a gun.

"What's your name?" Though Alex's voice was soft, it carried through the room nonetheless, and people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of him.

Tall Blond, having been effectively silenced by the gun held to his head, looked from the boy's face to the boy's weapon.

After a moment, he choked out, "Jason."

"All right, Jason." Alex adopted a perfectly reasonable tone, and the effect was unnerving. "How much time will we have before your partners return?"

Jason's lips parted, but then, his eyes flickered. A determined expression passed over his features, and he shut his mouth again.

Realizing that the man did not plan to cooperate, Alex felt a tired disappointment wash over him. He tilted the gun at a spot near Jason's foot.

_Bang! Bang!_

Screams.

Then silence.

"I asked: _How much time will we have before your partners return?_"

A cough. A pained assent.

"At least five more minutes." Jason's gaze remained fixed on the spot where the bullets had landed, just inches away from his vulnerable flesh.

Alex nodded, before turning to the gaping tellers. "Someone should go unlock the doors for the authorities."

* * *

_To Be Continued_

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	4. Embedded In Gold

CloudySky, AR-bookworm, Amore, and A: Thanks for the anon reviews!

* * *

_...embedded in gold._

_Alex nodded, before turning to the gaping tellers. "Someone should go unlock the doors for the authorities."_

To his mild surprise, no one resisted his command. He had expected at least one hot-blooded male to challenge a mere teenager's authority, but instead, he only received immediate compliance. After a rapid, nonverbal discourse, involving mere eye contact and head nods, the tellers dispatched a woman to the doors. As she darted through the bank, Alex recognized her as the one who had reached behind a counter earlier, in an attempt to notify the police.

Either she or he, or the both of them, had been successful because soon, uniformed personnel were pouring in. They evacuated the lobby quickly, leading streams of schoolchildren and customers out to the bustling pavement. Because of the situation, a blockade had been placed in the street, but it couldn't stop the curious pedestrians from pausing to look. Journalists had already arrived, and they were snagging eager interviewees to tell their tales. From his position within the bank, Alex could even hear the faint strains of a news helicopter.

Too tired to deal with the inquiries, Alex was almost glad that, instead of being released with his classmates, he had been detained. The reason for his detainment revolved around his possession of a gun. After alleviating Jason from his charge, the police had disarmed him and, being ambiguous about his role in the robbery, arrested him. Alex couldn't bring himself to care, but when they escorted him outside, he rapidly realized that _his _indifference was compensated by _everyone else's_ lack thereof.

As he was conducted out in cuffs, a slow ripple began to travel through the crowd. All of the former hostages paused in the midst of their conversations and turned to stare at Alex. Eyes widened. Jaws dropped.

Finally, Mr. Bates stepped forward.

"Excuse me, but I believe you've made a mistake! Alex wasn't one of the robbers!" he said to the two accompanying Alex.

One of the officers, a man with slick dark hair, looked slowly from the chaperon to the boy. "There is no mistake. We have due reason to arrest him."

"But he saved us!" protested another man, whom Alex didn't recognize.

And with that, the spectators' silence seemed to disintegrate. Suddenly, a chorus of protests was filling the air, and Alex didn't even recognize half the voices.

"He didn't do anything wrong! He—"

"You shoulda seen him!"

"—a hero!"

"He was the only one who—"

"Without him, we'd all be in there right now!"

"—amazing! Never seen anything like—"

"You can't arrest Alex Rider!"

The last cry seemed to echo above the rest, and it grabbed the attention of two detectives, who had just arrived. They exchanged meaningful looks, before pushing through the crowd to stand beside Alex.

"What is your name, son?" asked the taller of the duo, in a tone colored by surprised skepticism.

Worried by the expressions that they were sending him, Alex said hesitantly, "Alex Rider."

Exchanging another incredulous look with his counterpart, the first detective turned to address Alex's escorts. "I'm afraid that you will have to release him, sir."

"Why?" asked a policeman, failing to hide his disbelief.

"Our orders are from above," the other detective said evasively.

A moment later, the cuffs were popped off, and Alex was led behind a dark vehicle, which shielded him from the prying eyes. Confused, he fixed his gaze on the two detectives, waiting for them to speak.

Other than the obvious height difference, they appeared rather similar. In pressed suits and shined shoes, both were dressed professionally, and their two heads of neatly combed, brown hair complemented the look.

They introduced themselves as Spargo and Black, and wasted no time in asking questions. Still discomfited by the grudging respect that they showed him, Alex relayed the events quickly. They were mostly silent, interspersing the occasional question or interjection. However, all of their comments were respectful, as was their expressions.

At the end of the interrogation, Spargo clapped him on the back.

Black said, "It was an honor to meet you, Agent Rider."

Alex froze and then, in less than a beat, recovered.

Swallowing dryly, he ignored the urge to ask how, just _how _had they known his title? Instead, he simply nodded and walked away.

John Crawley apprehended him next. "Hello, Alex."

Alex's eyes narrowed, and as he gazed upon the other man, his previous numbness subsided. Triggered by the appearance of MI6, the shock from Black's words was beginning to manifest. Underneath the shock, though, betrayal and outrage buzzed in tandem.

"_Who told them?_" Alex ground out, bypassing proper pleasantries.

As Crawley blinked in confusion, the boy realized belatedly that, perhaps, he was being a bit rude. But sometimes, rudeness got a person what he wanted.

"I'm sorry?"

"The detectives, Spargo and Black. They knew who I was!"

Crawley blinked again. "Oh. When MI6 learned of your involvement, they told the detectives to look out for a high-ranking agent named Alex Rider. Don't worry, though. Spargo and Black will not reveal your identity."

Alex didn't know what to say. Exhaling deeply, he struggled but succeeded to reign in his incredulity. Life threatening missions had been good for one thing, at least. They had taught him how to conceal his emotions, much in a _throw-a-child-in-water-and-watch-him-sink-or-swim_ way.

But the control didn't last long.

After Crawley finished the debriefing, he said before striding away, "I saw the security footage, Alex. Your shooting was quite impressive in there."

Oddly, of all the things that had happened and all the things that had been said, it was this comment that impacted Alex the most. It ignited a slow, suffocating distress within him, one that encroached over his chest and transported his mind back into the bank.

Each time Alex closed his eyes, his memory conjured a scene of succumbing—succumbing to a SCORPIA mindset. He watched himself grasping the gun firmly, as if grasping the hand of a dear friend. He watched himself calculating the distance between his weapon and his target, objectively and detachedly like –_ like – _

—_a cold-hearted machine that only cared about getting the job done_.

Grimly, he ran a shaky hand through his tousled hair. It had started to rain again, and he tilted his head up, allowing cold rain to sting against cold skin. When he looked back down, he found that he was no longer alone.

"Alex?"

A doll-faced girl was standing beside him, much too close for comfort. _Bell, _some helpful portion of his mind supplied. Her name was Bell, and she had a 'reputation'.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her large, dark eyes scanning his face.

Instinctively, he began to search for an escape route. Around him, the flashing lights of police vehicles bled into the wailing sirens of ambulances, causing a jumbled scene dotted with a maze of spectators, officials, victims, and reporters. Several paces away, a group of his fellow classmates were huddled together, throwing him unreadable looks. When they realized that he had caught them staring, they hurriedly glanced away.

Swallowing his suspicions, he gave a stilted reply. "Yes."

With a row of blindingly white teeth, Bell worried her glossy red lips. "Are you sure? I mean, the police were talking to you for quite a while."

"And?" Perhaps, if he were cold enough, he could dissuade her from persisting.

"...And, I just," she floundered, leaning even closer to him than before, "I just thought that they might've upset you?"

"Your concern is touching—" His tone was flat as he took a step backwards. "—but also misplaced. Why don't you rejoin your friends?" He gestured at the assembled schoolchildren who were steadfastly _not-_looking his way. "They seem worried about you."

Hastily, she said, "Worried? Oh, I'm sure they aren't..."

"Really? Well, I must have misinterpreted their staring, then." Subtly searching the vicinity, he found a familiar figure among the gathered masses. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, stepping around her and toward the figure, "I have to—"

Both his explanation and her protests were lost into the early evening air.

A few moments later found Alex side by side with a short, spiky-haired boy.

Noticing him, the boy smiled and removed white ear buds from his ears. "Hey."

Faint but familiar strains of rap wormed their way into Alex's ears. It was the atrocious, American stuff that Tom adored*.

"_We at the hotel, motel, holiday inn!"_

"Hey, Tom." Making a face, Alex gestured at the iPod clutched in the other teen's hands. "Reunited with your one true love, I see?"

"Yes." Tom's lips split into a wide grin, and he turned up the volume, just to spite his friend.

"_WE AT THE HOTEL, MOTEL, HOLIDAY INN!"_

Alex rolled his eyes. A quick glance around revealed that although he was the subject of multiple scrutinies, no one actually stood close enough to be bothered by the music. Tom was also looking around, but for different reasons. The smile on his face had morphed into something sinister.

"I saw you talking with Bell, earlier," he said, nodding at the girl who had rejoined her friends. "What did she want?"

"I'm...not sure, actually." Alex shrugged. "She asked if I was all right, and—" Upon seeing the enlightened look spread over Tom's face, he cut himself off abruptly. "What?"

Chuckling, Tom said, "Isn't it quite obvious?"

"No." Alex was in no mood to deal with this.

"If you can't figure out what she wants, then you're hopeless," the shorter boy asserted with a smirk. "Let me illustrate. You see, this is her—" He wriggled his left index finger. "And this is you—" He did the same with his right. "And this is what she wants—"

What ensued could only be described as an obscene, epileptic mashing of the fingers.

Horrified understanding was evident in the small _O_ of Alex's lips. "Your fingers are..."

"Kissing like it's going out of style? Yes." Dismissing Alex's alarmed objections _("—I was going to say _eating_ each other, and yes, I was aware that she probably wanted a relationship, but—!"_), Tom continued, "Either way, I'm just glad you survived."

Alex's mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to shoot back, "No thanks to _you."_

"Well." The other teen shrugged. "I didn't think she'd be much of a problem for you. 'Specially after you took down those robbers with your awesome gun-slinging, which was very impressive, by the way."

Feeling the beginnings of a headache, Alex sighed. "Let's not talk about that, please."

Up until now, Tom's presence had been successfully barricading his darker thoughts. Now, though, the reminder was effectively stripping the barricade away.

For his part, Tom sensed that something was wrong and offered half-heartedly, "Well, at least Jake Lewis won't be bothering you anymore."

He was gesturing at a point beyond Alex, and Alex turned to see the other football player. When their eyes met, Jake's face drained of color and he quickly looked away.

"Yeah," Alex mumbled, a frown marring his face.

A self-deprecating part of his mind said, _he's scared of you because you're a cold-hearted machine. _And Alex swallowed heavily.

* * *

"Ye jus' cannae stay out o' trouble, can ye?" was the first thing Sebastian asked him when he ducked into Aiden's car.

Shrugging, the boy said nothing. The Scot didn't seem to notice his less-than-enthusiastic appearance, and proceeded to explain that the rest of K-Unit would be having dinner with them. It would be a celebration of sorts, to honor Alex's last day.

"Time passes fast, don' it? It's already been a week, an' yer going back t'that lovely Mrs. Starbright o' yours," he said.

Alex merely nodded an assent, not mentioning that he wasn't really in the mood for celebration.

In the driver's seat, Aiden said nothing.

However, all throughout dinner, Alex could feel the ex-psych student's eyes upon him. While the rest of K-Unit acted boisterous, Aiden remained largely silent. When Alex left the dining table, feeling overwhelmed by the exuberance of his teammates, Aiden followed quietly.

"You're feeling guilty over something stupid," the man announced without preamble, once they were alone in the sitting room, "and you'll tell me what that stupid something is."

The man's arrogant attitude sparked something akin to incredulity in Alex. "You – you've got to be kidding me."

Aiden raised an eyebrow. "Talk."

"What?"

"_Talk_. Surely, you can understand the meaning of that word?"

All Alex could sputter was, "_Why?"_

Impatiently tapping his foot, Aiden said, "It's obvious that talking makes you feel better."

"And why do _you_ care how I feel?"

"Why does anyone care about anything?"

Aiden's cobalt blue eyes were strangely intense in the dark room. Not able to look into them, Alex found his gaze wandering to the balcony door. Outside, the black expanse of clouds was uninterrupted except for a halo of gray, where the moon should have taken its pedestal. At the junction of sky and earth, a city skyline shouldered out the night with its _yellowgoldwhite _granules of light.

"_Alex_."

Surprised, the boy's head jerked up. Aiden had always called him 'Cub' or 'kid', and Alex was under the impression that the man had never learned his real name.

Alex sighed. "I...Today..."

"A sentence consists of a noun _and _a verb." Though his words were as disparaging as usual, Aiden's voice was less harsh.

"I shot a man today, and I did it without hesitating, too. It reminded me of going after Mrs. Jones. For a moment, I – I felt like a SCORPIA trainee all over again."

With an unreadable face, Aiden said, "So _that's _why you've been acting like your dog died?—"

"I don't have a dog..." Alex's muttered comment went ignored.

"—You're ashamed that you put some good knowledge to use? You're ashamed that you saved lives?"

"It-it's not like..."

"It's not like that? Let me tell you: It's _exactly _like that." He paused, then pressed onwards, "Would you say a gun is evil?"

"What?" The non-sequitur caused Alex to blink.

"Answer the question."

"Well, no."

"Why?"

Alex frowned. "Because it depends on what a person does with the gun. Weapons aren't evil; humans are."

"Well said." Slow claps undermined the authenticity of Aiden's compliment. "Now, apply that same phrase to your SCORPIA training. Knowledge and ability aren't evil; humans are." Without allowing the boy time to defend himself, Aiden tacked on, "It's ridiculous of you to feel guilt for saving lives. Now go back and _enjoy _your dinner. Gabriele will no doubt be bringing out the beer now, and then things will get interesting_. _If you pay enough attention, you might just discover some _fascinating _things about them."

Alex didn't know whether to grimace or to laugh.

Later in the night, when he learned that Gabriele still lived with his mother and that Ben's brother was an infamous drag queen in Liverpool, he decided that Aiden wasn't so much of a bastard after all.

The next morning, a hung-over but still cheerful Sebastian cooked him a hearty breakfast, discussing the relative merits of motorcycles versus cars.

"Ye see, Gabe's always goin' on 'bout how _the ladies adore motorcycles."_

"But the fact that he still lives with his mum makes one wonder how much he actually knows about _the ladies_."

A snort of laughter was rend from the man. "True, true. Anyway, Ben says it's a much smarter investment t'buy a car."

"I'd probably agree with Ben," Alex commented, absently studying the materials in front of him.

On the kitchen table, several packets of papers were laid out beside a thick textbook. Idly, Alex twirled his pencil, occasionally scratching a note into the margins of a page. When Sebastian finished cooking, he waved at the pile_._

"Kindly remove those from my kitchen will ye? Lookin' at them makes me lose my appetite."

"Me too," Alex said, complying. "Coursework is evil."

Nodding solemnly, Sebastian set down two platters of pancakes and a dish of sliced oranges. At the center of the table, he placed a small plate of golden toast, his 'signature dish'. Alex thought that it was rather otherworldly and possibly even better than Jack's.

For a while, they ate in comfortable silence, until Sebastian wiped at his lips and said:

"Yer leavin' today."

"Yeah." Although Alex tried to suppress it, he felt a tug of sadness in his stomach, as compelling as an ocean tide.

"MI6 is providin' yer ride. They should be here in half an hour."

Alex nodded his understanding, before a thought struck him. "If you don't mind me asking, what've you been doing while I was at school this past week?"

"Working on some paperwork an' enjoyin' my time off. After all, they're shippin' us off to Gaza on Monday," the man answered, amused. Then, he glanced at the clock. "Ye should probably start packing now."

Pulling a face, Alex agreed. "I probably should."

He treaded the well-acquainted path through the small hall, realizing that this would be the last time he walked down this way. Unless, of course, he needed temporary guardianship from Sebastian again...

In the doorway of the bedroom, he halted, absorbing the familiar scent of wood and lavender detergent and something he couldn't quite place. It was a nice _something _though, and it made him think of sunshine and warm sand and old songs. When his eyes fell onto thepolishedpiano shrouded in semi-darkness, he inadvertently began to hum _Heart and Soul_ beneath his breath.

He began to pack, extracting the clothes from the closet and the schoolbooks from the desk. Too soon, though, he was finished and had only one more item to retrieve. Walking to the bedside stand, he pulled its drawer open, palming the object within.

"What's that?"

Alex started, admonishing himself for not noticing Sebastian's presence. "It's, um, a..."

The boy held it up.

"You brought a knife into my flat?" Sebastian burst out.

Shrugging sheepishly, Alex nodded. "My sex ed teacher always said, 'better to be safe than sorry'."

For several moments, Sebastian sputtered indignantly before finally giving up.

Jerking his head to the door, he said, "Okay, c'mon. MI6 is here."

Alex nodded and tucked the knife into his duffel, letting the action hide his smile. "Done."

Sebastian then walked him through the halls and down the stairs, which Alex still insisted on taking. At street level, an inconspicuous black vehicle was parked in front of the lobby.

"Give us a call if ye need help, all right?" By _us_, Sebastian was plainly referring to K-Unit.

"All right," Alex assented.

"An' keep in touch?"

"Of course."

"An' ye _do_ know that Gabe'll kill ye if ye get yoursel' killed?"

Snorting, Alex reassured, "Yeah, yeah."

"An' Aiden'll act like a complete bastard, an' Ben'll—"

"_Sebastian_," the boy cut him off dubiously. "Are you _mothering_ me?"

Rubbing the nape of his neck, the SAS agent had the grace to flush with embarrassment. "Maybe a bit."

Alex laughed and, with a neat motion, pulled open the car door to duck inside.

The man wrenched his hand out from behind his neck to wave goodbye. "See ye."

"Good luck in Gaza," Alex returned.

And that was all.

* * *

Later, two figures reunited happily on the pavement before a certain London hospital. Spry auburn curls and disheveled blond locks framed respectively grinning faces, and somewhere else, there were other people who weren't quite smiling, but were still rather content as they packed their bags for an adventure in another country.

Around them, there was life, and above them, there was gold embedded in an expanse of undying blue.

Having returned from a long absence, the sun now reclaimed its rightly throne in the heavens.

_SpyFest. March 2010._

* * *

*The author adores it too.

Now, for the super long A/N:

-_Why is this chapter so short/terrible? _I wrote it three months ago for SpyFest and ran out of steam, and despite all the rewriting that I did, I still can't seem to improve on it.

-_Who was this gifted to?_ Due to some odd circumstances, it was gifted to DreamsInBlackAndWhite, although she wasn't my original recipient.

-_Why does Wolf/Gabriele's name have an e at the end?_ It's the Italian spelling.

-_Why does Snake/Sebastian talk like a redneck American from the South? _He doesn't. It only looks like he does because there's only a limited combination of letters/punctuation to create his Scottish accent.

-_Can I plagiarize?_ NO! But I do have one offer**. If you're dissatisfied by this ending, I'm leaving it open for anyone to write their own version.** Just PM me, so I can go enjoy it too.

_-Should I review?_ Yes, please, and have a great day. :D


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